


A Christmas Truce

by elle_dritch



Category: Sarah Jane Adventures
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 14:17:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1094923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elle_dritch/pseuds/elle_dritch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While shepherds watched their flocks by night-</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Christmas Truce

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jedi_penguin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jedi_penguin/gifts).



Clyde is running for his life. If he's not fast enough, not smart enough, the entire world will end. 

Ha, not really. Not this time. But he'd promised his Auntie Melba he'd be there by six thirty and it's twenty to seven now and he's still two streets away; the world might not end horribly but he does see an awful lot of sarcastic remarks in his immediate future.

He feels terrible, not least because he'd decided five minutes ago that the bus was going too slowly, and did it actually need to pick up this many people, it's not like Transport for London has developed TARDIS technology, and he'd leaped off to leg it down to the school himself. Conceivably, that might have been a terrible idea, he acknowledges, as he pauses to wheeze for breath. 

Listing slightly against a bus-stop while his lungs uncramp, he takes the opportunity to stare longingly through a steamed-up window into a chip shop, smelling gorgeously of fat and fish and the little unidentifiable crispy bits that are the choice of fast food connoisseurs everywhere. The owner of the little art gallery he's been working at for the summer had finally found Harstel's legendary 'The Physical Impossibility of Getting a Shanghorn into a Glass Tank' on an asteroid floating out in the Kuiper Belt, but between a malfunctioning transmat, the strict Health and Safety guidelines for an artwork that sloshes and contains an alien shark-thing, and his Silurian boss's gimlet eye, he hadn't had a chance to stop and now he's starving.

If it weren't for the fact that Clyde honestly loves the job that Sarah Jane had found him with Madame Chepra, he'd have cursed her for finding him a literally inhuman boss. He decides regretfully that he doesn't have the time to get anything and would probably just end up with half-masticated chip butty down his good shirt and tie anyway, which would give Auntie Melba another opportunity to curl her lip at him, and presses on. He is relieved beyond measure when the school comes into view and there are still cars and crowds stop-starting in front of the brightly-lit entrance. At least he hasn't missed the start. 

That doesn't stop Auntie Mel from snapping, 'You're late', as soon as he finds her in the crowded lobby. 

'Hello, Melba,' says Clyde, rolling his eyes and carefully omitting the Aunt. Neither of them is keen on the acknowledgement these days for several reasons, not least of which is clinging to her shoulder, dressed as a shepherd and sucking his thumb. Clyde smacks a kiss onto Moses' solemn face and says, 'Hello, little man. You are rocking that pillowcase.' 

Moses giggles and ducks his head, and Clyde feels his heart go squidgy. This kid, seriously. 'Oh, hang on,' says Clyde, feigning shock, 'what's this I have here in my magic bag?' He swings his backpack down from his shoulder and rummages through it. Moses' eyes are big above the thumb which he is still sucking vigorously, and widen further when Clyde pulls what he's been looking for from the bag. 'Can't be a shepherd without a sheep, am I right or am I right?' 

'S' a sheep,' confirms Moses in his rusty little voice. 

'It is,' says Clyde, nodding, 'it's your sheep. You can take it up onto the stage with you if you like, or it can stay with your mum and you can take it home.' 

Moses opens up his arms and Clyde makes the fluffy toy baaa at him before handing it over. His little brother hugs it hard, experimentally, and then relaxes, seeming satisfied with his new friend. 'Hello,' he says to it, gravely, and Clyde grins at him helplessly.

'Your mother isn't coming then?' 

Leave it to Mel to spoil the mood: Clyde gets rid of his fond smile and says, as apologetically as he can manage, 'No, she has to work. She said to tell you she's sorry she can't make it.' 

Melba snorts. 'I'm sure.' 

Clyde reminds himself that he is here for Moses. 

'Family's important at Christmas,' says Mel. 'Speaking of which, where's your father?' 

'How should I know?' Clyde grits out quietly, smiling widely in case Moses gets distracted from his serious conversation with the sheep and notices that the adults' chat has taken a nosedive. 'I spoke to him a few days ago, and he said he'd be here. I presumed you'd been in touch with him slightly more recently than that, since he's supposed to be married to you.' 

Her mouth closes tightly, and she says nothing. 

'Great,' says Clyde, feeling tired and sick, and still ridiculously hungry. 'I'll try his mobile. Give me two seconds.' 

His father's mobile rings and rings and rings before it trips over into his voicemail message: _Paul Langer. Leave a message and I'll get back to you._ The message is brusque but his father's tone is lazy, unconcerned, the way it's always been, the way his dad has always treated everything, suggesting that he'll get back to you just as long as nothing more interesting comes along in the meantime. 

'Dad,' says Clyde, resigned. 'Call me back if you're on your way.' He hangs up and rubs at his forehead to dispel the looming sense of inevitability and disappointment. 

'Left a message,' he tells Melba tersely, when he reaches them. 'Hopefully-' 

But she doesn't look any more optimistic than him; she looks bitter and beaten-down, and nothing like the laughing, happy-go-lucky Auntie Melba he remembers from his own childhood. She clicks her tongue against defeat gathering in her eyes, holds her head high, and says, 'Whatever. Your boyfriend just arrived. He's gone to fetch us some of that bloody awful juice.' 

'Luke's not my boyfriend!' Clyde says, for the fifty gazillionth time. 'He's not even gay. He just really likes scarves.' 

'I'm just saying,' Auntie Melba says, clearly enjoying herself a bit more now, 'if I had a man that treated me like he treats you, I'd be shouting it from the rooftops: always there when you need him, knows exactly what you need before you do, and he's smart as well as pretty.' 

'He's not pretty,' splutters Clyde. 'I mean, okay, he's not truly unfortunate looking but he's never managed to get his hair to look right. I'll give him the clever thing,' he adds graciously, 'you don't get into Oxford to do physics just by batting your pretty little eyelashes. Which he doesn't have. Basically, he's not my boyfriend, is what I'm trying to say here, and he doesn't take care of me, I can take care of myself. Clyde Langer don't need no man, and-' 

He only manages to halt himself when he notices that Moses is beaming over his shoulder and, wonder of wonders, even Melba has a smile cracking her face, and he finishes, 'He's right behind me, isn't he?' 

'I brought you a sandwich,' says Luke. 'You looked hungry. And a coffee: I know you worked late.' 

Melba laughs so hard she nearly drops Moses. 

'Thanks, Luke,' Clyde says resigned. 

'But it's true: he's not my boyfriend,' Luke tells her seriously. 'If he was my boyfriend, I could make him come shopping for my mum's Christmas present tomorrow.' His mouth twitches as he looks sideways at Clyde.

'Oh, not a chance,' Clyde disclaims hurriedly, through a mouthful of cheese sandwich. 'That woman is impossible to shop for. Just get her a voucher for Homebase; she's always having to replace bits of the house when alie- I mean, termites attack.' 

'I'm not buying my mum vouchers for a DIY store,' says Luke. 'What's wrong with you? Sky had better ideas and she's only little.' 

It might have degenerated into their familiar Christmas gift argument had a stentorious voice over the tannoy not announced that the Hounslow Primary Christmas Carol Concert and Nativity Play is due to start in fifteen minutes and could all children taking part now be delivered to Miss Chen by the hall doors? 

'Have you got everything you need?' Clyde asks Moses seriously. 'You're a big star now. It's okay to ask for a bigger trailer or your dressing room to be re-carpeted in purple.' 

'No brown M&Ms,' contributes Luke. 

'Don't confuse the child,' Melba scolds them. 'He's got everything he needs, don't you, baby, except-' She looks involuntarily at the school doors. 

'I'll try him again,' says Clyde. 'Maybe he's driving here now and can't answer his phone.' 

Melba raises her eyebrows at him over Moses' head. 

'It could happen,' he mutters and palms his phone again, leaving Luke and Melba to deliver Moses to stardom and Miss Chen. As he heads towards the doors to find somewhere slightly quieter, he hears Luke say to Moses, 'I like your sheep. Did you know that sheep are much smarter than people think? They can recognise people's faces. Your sheep looks very smart; what's its name?' 

He doesn't hear Moses' response, but he does hear Luke says dubiously, 'Stinky? Well, that's a- nice name.' 

Clyde stifles his giggles even as he pulls up his dad's number again. Neither Luke nor Sky had ever really been children or even associated with other children before their weird accelerated puberty had hit; sometimes it shows. 

His dad still isn't answering his phone, and hasn't called back. Despite this, Clyde leaves another, more urgent message, and only swears after he's hung up and looked around for stray children. He heads back across the hall, bracing himself for Melba's response. As he passes through the crowd, he hears one of the parents mutter, 'Has Mr Ellis lost weight? I swear he looked three sizes bigger two days ago.' 

'Maybe it's the Atkins diet,' says one of her companions. 'Everyone in my office is on it these days.' 

'Maybe it's worms,' suggests another mum, slyly. 'He's been wriggling about in those trousers like his bum's on fire.' 

Clyde stares over at Mr Ellis, the teacher who plays the piano at the carol concert each year. He does look uncomfortable but it's not just his trousers he keeps pulling at, it's everything. He yanks at his collar and his waistline, and keeps plucking at his clothing. Even his own skin seems to be causing him some discomfort, as he pulls at his upper arms and his hips. 

Clyde eyes him narrowly, but gets distracted by Moses suddenly finding his voice and shrieking, 'Clyde, Clyde, I'm going in.' Melba rolls her eyes as he shouts down her ear, but she waits for Clyde to hurry back and gently fistbump Moses' little hand before he gets handed over to Miss Chen to be absorbed into her over-excited, crying, shouting army of five-year-olds. 

'Well,' says Clyde, after several moments of uncomfortable silence without the glue of Moses. 'Suppose we'd better get our seats before the PTA sell them to the highest bidder.' 

'Mrs Langer?' Luke says politely, gesturing ahead of him. 

'It's Smith these days, actually,' says Melba stiffly but seems to melt slightly in the face of Luke's wide smile as he says, 'Brilliant! Smiths are awesome, aren't they?'

'Ugh,' says Clyde. 'Smiths are all well and good but now I can't call Moses Little Langer. The alliteration- now that was awesome.'

'And you can't be called Big Langer any more,' Luke says, knowingly. 

'That's- that's,' says Clyde, outraged.

Luke raises an eyebrow at him. 

'True in most respects,' finishes Clyde, resentfully. 

'So cute,' murmurs Mel from her chair beyond Luke. 'So oblivious,' and Clyde glares at her as he and Luke settle into the plastic chairs. He's only distracted as the lights in the hall lower and Luke leans slightly into his side. 

'Thanks for coming, yeah?' Clyde breathes as the ratty stage curtains start opening. 'It means a lot to Moses. And me, obviously.'

'Of course,' Luke whispers back. 'You know I'd do anything for Little Langer. And you, obviously.'

Clyde feels warm and giddy, and leans into Luke himself as the music starts. Mr Ellis seems as uncomfortable with the idea of playing the piano this year as he does in his own skin. The battered old upright sits proudly and redundantly to the left of the stage while Ellis, still sweating, lurks in the wings playing backing tracks from something that looks like an iPad. 

'Very modern,' sniffs Melba, and several of the parents surrounding them seem similarly discontented. Ellis had never been great at playing the piano but he'd had enthusiasm and a reliable sense of rhythm and a habit of looking out over the hall to encourage participation, and it's clear that the audience and the kids miss that.

Still, the carols pound along to the backing tracks and the wobbling, cheerful voices of the children and one or two of the teachers, and are bolstered by the parental pride emanating from the audience. Consequently,they make it to the interval without any major mishaps, except for a brief but vigorous artistic difference between two children about which verse of Away in a Manger they are supposed to be singing.

'You want another coffee?' Luke says, nudging him. 'You were yawning pretty hard at the end there.' 

'Mm, maybe,' says Clyde absently, watching some of the teachers slip surreptitiously through the staff room door one by one. 'Actually, you know what? I'd love some chips, possibly in a sandwich.' 

'You want a chip sandwich? Right now?' says Luke, his pale gaze sharpening. 

'I think that is exactly what I want. As soon as possible,' says Clyde firmly. 

* * *

'Hi, it's Mr Ellis, isn't it?' Clyde says, slipping up behind the teacher. 'I don't think we've met.' 

'Oh. No,' says Mr Ellis, smiling nervously. 'Not to the best of my knowledge. I'm sorry; you are?' 

'Oh, I'm Moses Smith's big brother, Clyde. Actually, I've been meaning to ask you about something. Could we have a word in private?'

'Oh, well, I don't-'

'It'll only take a few minutes. Perhaps in here?' Clyde pushes through the door that proclaims that the staff room is out of bounds to all children and parents. It's a nice sign, very new and shiny and portentous.

'No!' says Mr Ellis, following him in. 'You can't be in here. It's out of bounds to children and-'

'Parents, yes, I know. The thing is, though, I'm not a parent or a child and I have to say I find your tone a little offensive. In fact,' Clyde says, looking around the empty, darkened room with interest, 'I find your entire person a little offensive.' 

'What?' 

'You smell.' 

'Now who's being offensive?' blusters Ellis. 'I'd like you to leave now.' 

'Yes, I'm sure you would, Mr Ellis. Wait, what is your name?' 

'It's- it's Richard.' 

'No,' says Clyde, pleasantly, 'your real name.' 

'I don't understand.' 

'Really?' Clyde sighs. 'I didn't want to have to do this, but you've left me no choice,' and with that, he raises the perfume bottle he'd filched from Melba's handbag and sprays it into the air between them. Mr Ellis squeals horribly, like a deflating Qetesh stomach, and falls back pawing at his face. Clyde steps back prudently. He's pretty sure this won't make Ellis explode but he's been wrong before and he's not sitting through another half hour with alien insides trickling down his collarbone. 

'What is that?' Ellis chokes.

Clyde grimaces. 'Purr by Katy Perry,' he says apologetically. 'I'm pretty sure you could file charges against me with the Shadow Proclamation for even having that stuff in a populated area, but you're not going to do that, are you? Because if the Proclamation start looking too closely, so do the Judoon, and I don't think you want that kind of attention.' 

'Who _are_ you?' says Ellis, having fallen back in horror and amazement. 'What do you want?' 

Clyde grins. He's been waiting for this chance for a while now. 'Take me,' he says, savouring the moment, 'to your leader.' 

* * *

The thing with the Slitheen is they tend not to have a leader, per se. They're like evil sheep: one of them wanders off in a criminal direction and next thing you know they're all involved in a haphazard, doomed to failure enterprise to switch off the Sun or blow up Cardiff. Not that he can blame them for that; a little of Captain Jack goes a long way. So Clyde isn't particularly surprised when no leader steps forward when they reach the end of the newly dug tunnel system beneath the staff room. Instead, the stolen bodies of the teachers just mill about opposite Clyde and Ellis, glaring suspiciously. He's also less than surprised when they turn on Ellis rather than him; Ellis is at least a known quantity, if not a weak link. 

'What in the name of Clom are you playing at, Sisk Bel-Bort Hangle-Wang? Didn't you see the sign? No children and no parents-'

'He threatened me with a terrible weapon,' whines Sisk. 'And demanded to be brought down here.' 

'What kind of weapon?' 

Clyde brandishes the purple bottle and lets his finger rest threateningly on top of the atomiser. 'The kind you can get in Superdrug,' Clyde says. 'Listen, the interval's only fifteen minutes so let's keep this short. I've got a nativity play to see. Mr Ellis here, who was my brother's teacher last year and knows me pretty well, has apparently has lost his memory over the last two days, as well as several pounds in weight. It looks like his skin-suit's malfunctioning: it's far too tight and there's a faint trace of gas exchange. You might want to get that looked at.' 

All of the teachers look daggers at Sisk, who glares back and hisses, 'How am I supposed to know how they smell? And I told you it was a size too small!' 

'All of which,' says Clyde, enjoying his Poirot in the library moment, 'leads me to conclude that Slitheen- that's you lot, incidentally - have infiltrated the school for some reason, used the teachers as a disguise, and are planning to do crime.' 

'That's-' starts one of the teachers hotly. 'That's-' 

Clyde raises an eyebrow at them. 

'True in most respects,' subsides the teacher sulkily, waving a dismissive hand. 

'Now, family's a big thing for the Slitheen,' says Clyde. 'I get that, I do. Moses, my little brother, is a shepherd in the nativity play this year. Last year, he was a star and the year before that, in nursery, he was in the chorus. But this year, they said he was a shepherd and I've never seen him so excited. He has a sheep, you know. Although frankly that's mostly to distinguish him from the twenty-five other shepherds, which seems like bad planning on the part of the school.' 

'Not us,' says one of the teachers. 'It was organised before we even got here. And have you seen how many Three Kings we've got?'

'Fair enough,' says Clyde. 'Now, I've got to go back upstairs, and after this performance I have to tell my little brother that his father didn't turn up. For the second year running. Five is much too young to have his heart broken, but that's what I'm going to have to do. But I am damned if up until that moment he's not going to have the time of his adorable little life playing a shepherd, and nothing, _nothing_ in this universe is going to get in the way of that, do you understand me?' 

There's an embarrassed silence, and then one of them says, 'We're not setting the laser canno-'

'Bleg!' one of them hisses. 

'Oh, fine,' says Bleg. 'We are not doing the thing that we need to do until tomorrow evening anyway. Tonight's play with your young won't be disrupted.' 

'Then what were you all doing sneaking off down here?' 

Bleg holds up a bottle, sheepishly. 'Christmas party. We were going to get drunk, bitch about our superiors and make terrible life decisions. Time-honoured tradition for teachers, we've been informed. Wullagula?' 

* * *

Clyde begs off the Wullagula and slopes back to the crowds, who are still making a din above the Slitheen lair, drinking terrible orange squash, eating mince pies, and boasting extravagantly about their children. 

'Everything okay?' says Luke, his grey eyes far too bloody perceptive, and hands him a mince pie.

'Seems to be,' says Clyde. 'Sorry you had to go all that way to the chip shop.'

'It was fine,' Luke says, as they head back into the hall and settle down for the nativity play. 'Bartering for industrial amounts of vinegar: reminded me of the first time we met.'

Several of the shepherds, including Moses, are peering out from behind the curtain. Clyde and Luke wave at him and Moses waves Stinky at them and baas excitedly.

'Ah, memories,' says Clyde and stealthily slides an arm along the back of Luke's chair. 'We may have to deal with a Slitheen plot to blow up the moon with laser cannons tomorrow evening, so the vinegar may still come in handy.' 

Luke settles back into the curve of his shoulder. 'If I'm giving up my evening, you're coming shopping for Mum's Christmas present tomorrow.' 

'Fine,' says Clyde, unable to keep from grinning. 'It's a date.'

**Author's Note:**

> All blessings upon my two betas who stepped up at very late notice to break up my paragraphs and run-on sentences, and eliminate my joke involving Ace of Base lyrics. They saved me from myself.


End file.
